


No Strangers to Love: A Story of Destiny, The Digital Fossil Record, and The Perks of Being a Third Wheel

by persnickett



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Meet-Cute, Other, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Thominewt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22600963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persnickett/pseuds/persnickett
Summary: Whoever said three is a crowd never met Minho’s Soulmate(s)
Relationships: Minho/Newt/Thomas (Maze Runner)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 216





	No Strangers to Love: A Story of Destiny, The Digital Fossil Record, and The Perks of Being a Third Wheel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [singtome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/singtome/gifts).
  * Inspired by [An Apprenticeship](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21890428) by [persnickett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/persnickett/pseuds/persnickett). 



> So. If some of this seems a little familiar, it might be because I recently dipped my toe into the Soulmates AU pool when I was lucky enough in the TMR Secret Santa to be paired up with my darling singtome, who made several Christmas wishes, including newtmas and ‘soulmates with a twist’. Me being who I am, and she being just that special to me, I naturally rushed immediately headlong into a probably ill advised, definitely overly complex 20k attempt to fulfill all of her wishes at once (called [An Apprenticeship and found here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21890428) if you are into that kind of thing), and I hope I at least succeeded at some of them.
> 
> At some point in my 20k misadventure, however, a point far too ~~stubborn~~ late for turning back, I realized that she had also included thominewt in her wishes. And that there was probably a much simpler, shorter way to give the ol’ Soulmate deal that little twist.
> 
> ...And then a little fishie told me today would be a good day to hit her with one more wish.
> 
> Happy Birthday Gel!! It’s a little-bitty one, but I hope you enjoy your gift-that-almost-was, and have the most wonderful day! <3
> 
> "So Pythagoras says to Isosceles, he says... (well aren’t you Acute little angle)"  
> \- Snick, 2k20 (and here all week)

The train bursts out of the tunnel, bathing the car in wan, early light and Minho turns to the window to watch the trees flash by; green leaves blurring past against the bright blue and patchwork white of the springtime sky.

This is probably his favourite part of their morning commute. Except maybe his daily tradition of cruising past Newt’s bedroom door far too late to wake him up in time to brew the coffee, so that they have to stop and grab a cup at the place on the corner instead. Standing in line with all the other yawning local patrons, sharing a pair of ear buds and drawing a lot of knowing smiles.

Minho’s okay with it. Theirs is a pretty cute story, he doesn’t mind saying.

In fact, he can feel Newt passing him one now from his seat next to him, the back of his hand a warm, familiar pressure at his shoulder. Minho turns and accepts the wordless offer, tucking the ear bud comfortably in.

Rick Astley.

“Asshole,” he murmurs, accordingly. Newt’s been on an 80’s kick lately. Which, truthfully, Minho doesn’t mind at all. The era definitely had its merits, and hell, Paula Abdul is still all-the-way hot. But some traditions must be observed.

“You’re welcome.” Newt snickers contentedly as he settles their shoulders together, adjusting the sleeve of his sweater down as he does, to more discreetly cover the words inked into the inside of his wrist.

Only the letters A and T are left now, peeking out from under the edge. Minho reaches over to set his hand over them in appreciation as he turns back to the window to enjoy his Rickroll in peace. He doesn’t need to look to know his thumb is tucking just high up enough under Newt’s cuff to reach at least as far as A U R. He knows each of Newt’s letters as well as he does the ones marking his own skin in sharp, blocky black serif.

Minho lets his grip stay a while, his thumb skate back and forth – all the way up to O, and back down. He draws a little circle right around about R, and the soft smile playing on Newt’s lips sets itself a little deeper, despite the current assault on both their eardrums. 

**_We’ve known each other for so long…_ **

Minho smiles a little too. This kind of thing has been happening more lately. Maybe they’re starting up again. That could be nice. It always is, really, especially that sweet, intense part near the beginning.

**_We know the game and we’re gonna play it_ **

The thing is, Minho and Newt have known they were Soulmates pretty much their entire lives. The two of them have basically been inseparable since the day Minho bounced up to Newt their first day at Glade Nursery School, and they both blurted at once: “ _what kind of dinosaur is that_!?”

And Newt's triceratops ended up racing Minho's dimetrodon around the Hot Wheels track for the rest of the afternoon.

As long as they’ve known each other they’ve known that their bond is special and unique – and not just because of how unusually early in life they were lucky enough to be matched. Everybody has the first words they are destined to hear their match speak to them tattooed conspicuously – and sometimes unfortunately or embarrassingly of course – on the inside of their wrist, but few have Soulmarks that match identically.

(Minho taps T and H along to the beat and Newt snorts, head shaking sardonically where his temple has settled against Minho’s shoulder, maybe gearing up for one of his patented cat naps.)

They've never grown out of it either, the habit of speaking in stereo when they get a little excited or something strikes them as funny. Nor have their friends ever tired yet of teasing them about it.

But what they have is different in other ways too, Minho thinks, as the train plunges back into the tunnel and the light splashes back to its regular old Thursday Morning Subway dim. Newt sits up a little straighter, his arm drawing gently free of Minho’s grasp.

They've tried the dating thing, him and Newt – and they tend to move in and out of it pretty smoothly. Somehow without ever doing much lasting damage, by the grace of whatever powers the Universe holds, to the bond that has marked out their entire lives.

It's too big for that anyway, too special to let go. Too indescribable for labels, and just too _much_ to fit into boxes.

Minho looks at Newt, the blond mop of his hair flopping into his still half-bleary eyes as he flicks idly through his playlist (probably in search of something suitably offensive enough to follow Mr. Astley) and he honestly doesn’t know what he would do, who he would even be, without him. He looks at Newt and Minho has every confidence, can feel it as sure as he feels the subway floor that rattles and undulates under their feet, that they will always work it out.

**_A full commitment’s what I’m thinking of, you wouldn’t get this from any other guy_ **

And who knows, maybe one of these times it will stick.

They always start strong after all; committed, enthusiastic and besotted with the promise of it all – not to mention all over each other and horny as all hell. But over the months…

It just seems there's always something there – or maybe it’s what _isn’t_ there – that doesn't quite add up. Some spark, or electricity that seems to crackle and flow between the Soulbonded couples you see canoodling on park benches and sharing ice creams, even in the snow white-haired duos holding each other up and laughing at old unspoken jokes while they’re out feeding the pigeons. Minho’s very own parents are guilty of subjecting him to some scenes he might never succeed in wiping clean from his mind.

And all of them with the same sort of enduring glow he and Newt have never quite seemed to achieve, some fire or absent energy that ought to be there.

Something missing.

They’re both pretty practical types – one of the things Minho loves best about Newt – and they’re good at talking things out when they need to. (In fact if the truth were to be told, Newt probably considers himself a bit of an expert at it by now.) And all things considered, they’re among those who are content to agree that maybe not all mate bonds have to mean 'mating' per se, and that what they have is obviously different, and cherished.

So they've tried dating other people too. Some of them trying it a little more than others.

Not that anything has ever really taken off, of course. The knowledge that your current company will one day find their most perfect cosmically appointed companion, combined with the foregone conclusion that it most definitely won't be you, always tends to put kind of a damper on the mood.

Hence, they find their way back to each other, always there – and more than happy – to see to each other's needs. And they've both come to understand and trust that neither would have it any other way. 

So when he looks over again and catches Newt eyeing the cute, freckled brunet boy currently rising out of his seat to offer it to a woman who is petite and pert-looking and obviously heavily pregnant, Minho is completely on board.

He's never had it in him to deny Newt anything, after all. And Newt never looks, hardly ever.

He can't seem to stop today though. Not that Minho can blame him. Freckly Brunet is doe-eyed and striking, in a goofy puppy-dog kind of way. And when he smiles, gracious and dismissive, at the woman – who doesn’t quite manage to lever her ponderous new weight into the seat she is busy thanking him profusely for without the support of his instinctively-helpful looking hand at her elbow – he might even have dimples.

Then, when he hoists a dark blue gym bag over his shoulder and moves down the car to lean his tight, athletic-looking frame against the wall right next to where Newt and Minho just happen to be seated, the whole thing just gets so much better. If you’re Minho.

If you’re Newt, you apparently spend the rest of your commute with your spine an alert, rigid line. And your eyes held so wide and unblinking with the strain of keeping them pointed straight ahead and off of the way his softly worn in blue jeans sit on a set of fit, narrow hips, curving blithely into the suggestion of what Minho has no doubts is a spectacularly fine little ass, that your Soul-slash-room-mate is mildly surprised they don’t levitate right out of your head.

The few odd glances Newt has left to spare for Minho catch him watching him avidly, with a knowing expression and one eyebrow raised in whole-hearted approval.

To which Newt’s only response is a grin and quiet but emphatically muttered “oh, fuck off.”

At least he has the decency to blush.

It still doesn’t stop him though. Dimples n’ Freckles has a ceaseless sort of energy to him, the boundless, barely-contained sort of vibe that has him shifting position constantly against the train car’s wall, and his hands never seem to stop moving. Fidgeting with the zip of his hoodie and scratching restlessly at the ticklish-looking hairs curling at the nape of his neck. His phone moves in and out of his pocket too, thumbs taking turns paging through the different apps while one hand or the other wanders ambidextrously free, scratching at the top of his slightly upturned nose or tugging idly at his own ear lobe, and once – as far as Minho notices – even his bottom lip. Before even the next ten minutes or so are up, Newt’s gaze has spent so much time flicking furtively over at various little bits of him and back (and then over and back again) Minho is slightly concerned that by the time they reach their stop and have to get to their own two feet, he will have made himself dizzy enough he’ll simply topple right over on top of the poor kid.

Seriously, it’s intense. Newt has aggressively pushed his dead giveaway of a self-consciously preening hand through his hair so many times that it left ‘standing on end’ behind several stops back, and has now basically taken on a sentience and entire life force of its own. Minho is fully prepared to check him later for bald patches. Thoroughly.

It's a risky move, mostly because he'll probably break his phone. But as they finally do make their way toward the door to get off at their stop, he is careful to drop it anyway. Right in the neighbourhood of Freckly Brunet Boy's feet.

The look in Newt’s eye goes immediately and naturally murderous, or possibly suicidal (or maybe a bit from Column A and a smidgeon from B for extra homicidal flair) as Brunet-and-Freckles’ nicely trained and tastefully broad shoulders jump, in an admittedly adorable little start of surprise, for the abrupt clattering in the rough vicinity of the toe of his left sneaker.

The phone is an older model, Minho has no business or excuse carrying anything that still has keys on it really, and he has been planning on a new one anyway, but he will _swear_. To the end of their days. That all his plan consisted of was breaking a little ice and maybe asking for a few digits to go into the old fossil. Just to check it still functions after that oh-so-disastrous fall, of course.

None of them is expecting it – although perhaps, Minho thinks in hindsight, maybe he should have been by now – when the boy bends predictably and politely down to retrieve the fallen device, and then, noticing its admittedly rather advanced age, says with arguably the friendliest (and definitely the most blinding) smile Minho has ever seen:

“What kind of dinosaur is THAT!?”

They freeze. What else can they do, but turn to each other – and after sharing a shocked glance that lasts what has to be probably a good six and a half years – speak both at once.

" _That explains some things_ ," says Newt, just as Minho pronounces " _this could work_."

Freckly Brunet freezes too.

Of course, neither of them is surprised when, agape, then shy – and understandably at a seeming loss for words – he silently rolls up a sleeve. The better to reveal the words standing inkily out against their backdrop of milky-pale skin so liberally adorned in a scattershot speckling of cheeky, sweet little brown moles that if he were a flavour, he would surely be Cookies n’ Cream:

THAT EXPLAINS SOME THINGS

Needless to say. All three of them miss their stop.

Minho would like to say he's still not surprised, on the bright, dizzying day they finally work this crazy thing out, to find that Thomas' mark isn't any less unusual than his and Newt’s own. But the truth is he's never met anyone – never even heard of anybody – marked on _both_ their wrists.

And, there in their slightly crowded bed, bathed in the open window’s early morning patchwork light and running his thumb in fond, memorizing strokes over and over the warmth of his new Soulmate's skin like if he does it enough he’ll be able to feel the words emblazoned there; his head pillowed in familiar comfort on his original Soulmate's chest – Minho lets the moment sink in.

Newt’s posture where he is tucked into and under him is the most liquid and relaxed he is sure he has ever felt it, and Thomas? Seems to finally, finally be still.

Minho breathes, taking in these last few moments before they’ll have to be up and heading for the train. (Much, much too late, of course, to bother brewing the coffee.) He feels the crackle and flow of this new fire, this finally found energy glowing enduringly between the three of them, and he can't help but agree with the cosmically appointed perfect new words, right there under his fingertips in blocky black serif:

THIS COULD WORK

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Oh. And: [one last thing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oHg5SJYRHA0)


End file.
